Traitor js-4

by Rory Clements

  ‘Not very clever for a boy noted for his reasoning powers, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Fitzherbert? I think a village idiot could have covered his tracks better.’

  Fitzherbert said nothing. His closed little mouth clenched tighter.

  ‘So he was apprehended, red of hand. Did he confess?’

  Fitzherbert hesitated a moment, then shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Did he protest his innocence, Mr Fitzherbert?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But no one believed him.’

  ‘Why should we? We had conclusive evidence to the contrary.’

  ‘But you had him in your custody. How, then, did he escape?’

  ‘Is there any point in all this, Mr Shakespeare? You are like the Inquisition-’

  ‘I don’t wish to remind you who I am, Mr Fitzherbert. Just answer my questions.’

  Fitzherbert’s neck stiffened. ‘Very well. He was held here for three days while the President and Fellows discussed the matter with the proctor and decided what to do.’ Fitzherbert’s tone was crisp, irritable. ‘One or two Fellows wished the affair to be treated as a disciplinary matter within the college, but they were greatly outnumbered. This was an attack on the Queen of England, Mr Shakespeare, not just on the college. In days past, as a boy who could read well, Master Woode would have had benefit of clergy and would have been tried at an ecclesiastical court. But nowadays, as you must know, such benefit is applied only after conviction. It was determined that the offence was so grave that the town authorities had to be brought in.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He was to be taken to the Oxford gaol. Somehow, as he awaited his escort, he slipped the cords that bound him and ran away.’

  ‘Who was in charge of him while he was being escorted to gaol? Was it someone from the college — or a tipstaff?’

  ‘A college servant was with him awaiting the tipstaff. He has been questioned and reprimanded. It seems he left the boy for no more than a few moments to bring him a cup of ale. When he returned, the boy was gone.’

  ‘Just the one man?’

  ‘I believe so. Master Woode was bound. A scholar of thirteen would hardly need a squadron of men to take him the short distance to the gaol.’

  Yes, he was but thirteen years of age. But for all that, thought Shakespeare, Andrew was tall and fleet of foot; he doubted very much whether he could catch the boy in a race.

  A thought struck Shakespeare, born of years working in the devious underworld of intelligencers and assassins. Perhaps someone untied the cords for him. He would need to talk with the college servant.

  ‘Had you noticed any changes in Andrew in the days and weeks leading up to this event?’

  ‘Changes? What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘Was he withdrawn, melancholy? Had he become less attentive to his studies?’

  Fitzherbert frowned. ‘This is a university college, Mr Shakespeare, not a nursery. Which of us is not afflicted by melancholy at some time or other? I am not a nursemaid. I cannot pay heed to such things.’

  Shakespeare looked at Fitzherbert with scorn. The Fitzherberts were an old family who had courted much controversy in recent years, splitting like a cleft log between the causes of Catholicism and the new Protestant Church. Where did this man’s heart lie — and to which branch of the family did he belong?

  ‘Mr Fitzherbert, you may not be a nursemaid, but you were put in a position of trust and so I would know more. The names Thomas and Nicholas Fitzherbert must hold meaning for you …’

  Shakespeare peered closely into the tutor’s eyes to see what reaction the names might invoke, for both men were Catholic exiles and deemed traitors: Nicholas was a member of Cardinal Allen’s household in Rome; Thomas was a paid adviser to King Philip of Spain.

  ‘They are my cousins. Would you hold that against me? I disown them. Is that enough for you? Have you no cousins that you would wish to disown?’

  Shakespeare stepped forward with menace and the tutor backed off. ‘They are more than mere cousins, Mr Fitzherbert; they are traitors. You cannot cast them off so easily.’

  Fitzherbert hunched into his bony shoulders and turned side on, like a cur that has seen the whip. ‘I am of the new Church, Mr Shakespeare, the true English Church. I despise the scarlet whore of Babylon and all its acolytes.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  Something in this cringing man made Shakespeare want to strike him. Instead he turned away. He was unsatisified. The man’s answers were sound enough, if a little glib, yet the thought of Andrew being in his care made revulsion well up within him. He would have to investigate Fitzherbert in more depth, when Andrew was safe.

  Janus Trayne lay still in the undergrowth watching the house. He had stayed there twenty-four hours, barely moving a muscle. The occupants of the house came and went. It looked like any other rural cottage. The chickens and pig were fed, vegetables were watered, children played in the muddy yard, the man of the house walked off to his work. There was no sign of Ivory or Cooper. Either they were not here, or they did not leave the house, even for a moment.

  It occurred to him that they might be hid near by, in an outhouse or byre. On the second day, one of the young women of the house walked out in her Sunday clothes, carrying a basket. He followed her from a distance and observed her as she went to the market, bought meats and bargained for a kitchen pot, then returned home.

  By the end of the day he knew for certain that his quarry was not here. And yet they must have been here or hereabouts, otherwise Ivory’s pipe could not have been at the Black Moth in Sudbury.

  He watched a little longer. He needed to ask some questions and get some honest answers, at the point of death if need be. The master of the house, a man in his fifties, strode out in the early evening. Trayne guessed he was going to the alehouse and trailed him through woods. The man slowed down and stopped, as though considering which path to take. Trayne lunged forward. In a rush he was upon the man, thrusting the muzzle of his wheel-lock pistol into the side of his head.

  ‘Mr Cawston? You are Mr Cawston, I believe.’

  Tom Cawston stood back from the pistol. ‘What if I am?’

  ‘This is loaded and will kill you if you do not answer me straight.’ Trayne noted a lack of fear in the man’s eyes and pushed the muzzle forward into the middle of his face. ‘Do not think I jest.’

  ‘Ask away then.’

  ‘I am looking for two men, William Ivory and Boltfoot Cooper. I know they are here.’

  ‘Friend of theirs, are you? Well, you’ve missed them. They were here but they’ve gone, and they didn’t tell me where.’

  Trayne was taken aback. He was accustomed to see the fear in men’s eyes. ‘Are you not afraid of me?’

  ‘Afraid of you? In God’s name, why would I fear you? I go to church and I say my prayers and live in peace with the Lord. If this is my last day, so be it. You can pull the trigger and I’ll know nothing about it, or you can go on your way and leave me to live out my days.’

  ‘Or I could cause you much pain and force you to reveal the whereabouts of those I seek.’

  Suddenly, Tom Cawston threw back his head and laughed out loud. ‘You must think me an ignorant country fellow. Indeed, you must think us all ignorant country doddypolls. Look around you, Mr Pistol, look around you.’

  And he laughed even louder.

  Trayne swivelled his head. Ahead of him and slightly to the right was a man with a bow, its string drawn, an arrow set and pointing directly at him. And then he saw another archer, to the left.

  ‘Did you think we weren’t expecting you? Did you think you could trawl these parts, hiding in woods and bracken, asking questions in towns and villages and not be noted? Shoot me if you like, but you’ll have two arrows in you before I hit the ground.’

  Trayne had the weapon in his left hand. His right arm was still weak and painful. He realised the gun was shaking. He began to back off. The two bowmen advanced. Trayne stumbled on a branch but kept his footing. Wit
h his damaged right hand, he grabbed out and caught Tom Cawston by the lapel of his jerkin. The pain in his wrist was excruciating, but he pulled Cawston forward roughly. The archers hesitated. It was just enough for Trayne. He pushed Cawston away, turned, ducked low and ran into the depths of the wood. An arrow brushed past his temple. Another stabbed into a tree at his side. Behind him he heard laughter and footfalls.

  Deeper and deeper into the wood he ran. Slowly the noises of his pursuers faded, then died. Somehow he had escaped. He crossed himself and thanked God, then cursed, for it seemed he was no nearer his quarry than he had ever been.

  Chapter 28

  Andrew and Ursula did their best to keep away from Reaphook and Spindle. It was a situation that could not last.

  The evening was warm. Staffy was not around. Ursula and Andrew were at the Dogghole, cooking pigeon at the fire. A gaunt young man, newly arrived, was playing a tune on his wood whistle, hoping to get a bit of food for his pains.

  Ursula repeated her refrain, ‘Don’t give him nothing.’

  Suddenly, there was movement behind them.

  ‘Well, well.’

  They turned to see Reaphook and Spindle standing over them.

  ‘Pig off, Reaphook.’

  ‘I wondered where you two had got to.’

  ‘Do you want Staffy to know what you been trying?’

  ‘Staffy ain’t around.’

  ‘But he will be.’

  Spindle moved forward and stroked her hair. She shook him off. He laughed.

  ‘Word has it that you got coin, Ursula Dancer,’ Reaphook said. His hand was on the haft of his sickle. ‘Did some good sharking on market day. I don’t believe I’ve had my share.’

  Ursula jumped to her feet and faced him aggressively. ‘The only one gets a share is the Upright Man. And Staffy’s had his coin from me. You get nothing.’

  ‘How about a kiss?’ Spindle said. He tried caressing her waist, but she brushed his hand away as she had done before.

  Andrew leapt to his feet. ‘Why don’t you leave her alone?’

  ‘Oh dear, why don’t you leave her alone, Mr Spindle,’ Reaphook said, imitating Andrew’s refined vowels once more.

  ‘And you leave him alone. Come on, Andrew Woode, we’re going. It stinks of dog turd around here.’

  ‘Not so fast.’ Spindle had grabbed her by the skirts. ‘We’re having your coin.’

  Andrew lunged forward and pushed the thin boy away.

  Spindle clutched his chest in feigned horror. ‘Why, Mr Reaphook, he has hit me again. That’s twice now.’

  Reaphook grinned, his mule’s teeth splayed across the lower part of his face. ‘There’s only one way to settle this, then. There’ll have to be a challenge fight. Only way to settle a feud in the band. Staffy’s own rules, I do believe.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Spindle said. ‘I want a challenge fight. Tomorrow morning.’

  Ursula shook her head. ‘He hardly touched him. You got no cause for a fight.’

  ‘The challenge is made. That’s it. Even Staffy can’t break it.’ Reaphook eyed Andrew up and down. ‘Good fighter, are you? You better be, because you’re fighting young Spindle here. Vagabond law. You hit him — you fight him. One hour after daybreak. Be there or begone. He’ll enjoy doing for you, won’t you, Spindle?’

  A mere fifteen miles away from Andrew and Ursula’s woodland lair, Shakespeare stood in the gatehouse of St John’s College. He was itching to get away, to hunt for Andrew, but there was no point in going before dawn and he had business here before leaving.

  He examined the manciple’s face for signs of nervousness or guilt, but could detect nothing. The college servant was in his late twenties or early thirties. He was squat and bent, but looked strong enough to hold a boy of Andrew’s age.

  ‘How did he make his escape, Mr Porter?’

  ‘Slipped his ropes. Here — ’ he picked up a length of cord from the table — ‘this is the very one used to tie the boy. I believe Tutor Fitzherbert tied him, so blame him if the knots were too loose.’

  ‘But you left him — and that’s when he got away?’

  ‘Aye, the tipstaff was a long time coming. Poor lad was dying of thirst. So was I! Never occurred to me that he’d work himself free of the rope.’

  ‘Did you see Andrew Woode run? Did you see what direction he went?’

  ‘No. When I came back with the ale he was gone. No idea where he went. But the justice’s men will find him soon enough, I’m certain. Is that all, Mr Shakespeare? I have work to do.’

  ‘For the present, Mr Porter.’

  Shakespeare walked through the streets of Oxford. Even this late in the evening there were people about, going in and out of the various alehouses, brothels and taverns. Had Andrew made for one of these dens? Had he tried to find lodging — or did he, perhaps, have a friend in the town who had given him a space in a room? It seemed unlikely. Shakespeare guessed that Andrew’s instinct would have been to get out of Oxford as quickly as he could and make straight for the countryside. He would start his search at first light.

  At the Blue Boar, he found Dee in the company of Oxx and Godwit. Shakespeare sent the two guards out for a break, their first in many days, and told them to be back by midnight.

  ‘And what of me, Mr Shakespeare?’

  ‘We will stay here together. I wish to hear your thoughts.’

  Shakespeare proceeded to tell the old alchemist all that had passed at St John’s, along with the conversations with the college president, Hutchinson, James Fitzherbert and the manciple, Mr Porter. At last he was silent.

  ‘Your first instinct is that Andrew is innocent of this charge, Mr Shakespeare?’

  ‘Yes …’ He hesitated. ‘But I know, too, that the boy is angry. And he tends towards papism. His family has suffered grievously these past years. His mother died young, his father died after being tortured for his faith. If he has committed this madness, he has reason enough, though no excuse.’

  ‘Let us go with your first instinct. Let us say he is innocent. And if that is the case, then it means someone else is guilty. And that someone has deliberately laid the blame on Andrew.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had the painting been protected — guarded — in any way?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘Then I imagine almost anyone in the college — scholar or tutor or servant — could have inflicted the damage.’

  Shakespeare nodded. ‘That must mean well over a hundred, perhaps two hundred people would be suspect.’

  ‘But we can narrow it down,’ Dee continued, putting his thoughts in order. ‘Not everyone would have access to the boy’s room. How many are lodged there?’

  ‘Besides Andrew? Three boys and their tutor, Fitzherbert.’

  ‘So any one of those four, or their servants, could have put paint on the boy’s gown and placed the pigments in his box?’

  ‘Again, yes.’

  ‘But we can narrow it yet further. There was paint on his hands, too. That would have had to be done during the night, stealthily, while he slept. Are there any servants lodged in the room?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then it had to be one of the other boys — or the tutor.’

  Shakespeare listened carefully to Dr Dee’s analysis. It was clear and logical; his own mind had been a fog.

  ‘What of the other option: that Andrew is guilty?’

  ‘You say the boy is clever. Why did he implicate himself so? Why did he wait to be caught instead of making good his escape straightway? There is no logic there, Mr Shakespeare.’

  ‘Indeed, not.’

  ‘And even if, for argument’s sake, he is guilty, then it would be reasonable to assume that he had already organised his flight from England to France or Rome, and would most likely be on his way there already. In which case, your decision to search in this area would be futile.’

  ‘But we have agreed that it is more likely that he is innocent.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare. I
think we are agreed on that. Yet in running from the college to save himself from the noose, he has done the cause of his defence no favours. Fleeing justice will always make a man seem guilty.’

  What Dee said was harsh but true.

  ‘So you must do two things, Mr Shakespeare. You must not only find the boy, Andrew, but must also discover the true culprit.’

  Shakespeare nodded. Yes, he would do that. And he could not but wonder at the timing of this grim event. It was almost as if someone had done this thing intending to draw him away from his inquiries in Lancashire. If so, then they had succeeded. But that was something to be investigated another day; finding Andrew must come first.

  He sat at the table, dipped one of Dr Dee’s quills in an inkhorn and began to write to Sir Robert Cecil. The letter said simply:

  ‘Sir Robert, I have urgent business in Oxford concerning my son. This may take some little time and I beg your indulgence in the matter. Suffice it to say, my charge is safe and will remain so. I will report to you again as and when I may. Your faithful servant, John Shakespeare.’

  He handed it to Dee. ‘Ask Mr Oxx to find a messenger in the morning.’

  ‘Cecil will not be happy.’

  No, Shakespeare knew that. His letter would not be at all well received.

  Close by the Dogghole, four fence posts had been driven into the ground and a rope strung around them to form a square, ten feet by ten feet. A crowd of the dispossessed was gathered around it, perhaps eighty strong. They were noisy and riotous. Drink was already being taken, despite the early hour. Men, women and children had appeared from their secret sleeping places in barns and copses. They smoked pipes of woodland leaves and clasped beakers of strong liquor and ale. They cheered and barracked the empty square, and had brawls of their own as they waited expectantly for the entertainment. There would be blood and broken bones here this day. Perhaps a death. That was worth waiting for.